On more than one occasion the poet claimed that this poem was about his friend Edward Thomas, a man inclined to indecisiveness out of a strong and as Frost thought amusing habit of dwelling on the irrevocability of decisions.
It keeps us in the woods, at the crossroads, unsure whether the speaker is actually even making a choice, and then ends not with the decision itself but with a claim about the future that seems unreliable.
Here is Frost from an interview with The Paris Review intalking about the act of writing: The whole thing is performance and prowess and feats of association.
The latter he nodded "Yes" to, Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one, With a buyer's moderation, "That would do. Close the door. First tell me that.
Divided when the process of choosing gives way to the fact of choice. It reads naturally or conversationally, and begins as a kind of photographic depiction of a quiet moment in woods. When stiff and sore and scarred I take away my hand From leaning on it hard In grass and sand, The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength To feel the earth as rough To all my length.
Nonetheless, that is the way he is going now, and the place he ends up, for better or worse, was the result of his decision.